


Bad Things

by smallerontheoutside (theinvisiblequestion)



Series: Playlist [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvisiblequestion/pseuds/smallerontheoutside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Bellamy have a no-strings-attached arrangement... for now.</p><p>(Inspired by Meiko's song of the same name.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Things

Bellamy flicks the lock on his phone, and his text conversation with Clarke is still up on his screen. Has he really not used his phone in the last two days? He taps out a quick message to Clarke anyway— _mine, 30 mins?_ —right as the train pulls up. He steps on and grabs the only unoccupied space in the car, crammed against the door with no access to any kind of hand-hold.

Her reply doesn’t come until he’s getting off the train twenty minutes later, down the block from his apartment building. _7:30 at the earliest_ is her reply. Seven thirty is almost three hours away, and knowing her, it’s going to be eight or nine before she actually shows up.

 _Dinner party_? he replies. Her parents are way too fond of having people over for dinner.

Her response, another ten minutes later, is terse: _Yes_. He can imagine the scowl on her face.

It’s the same scowl that’s on her face when she shows up a little after one in the morning. 

“This is a record even for you, princess,” he comments, but he slips a hand around her waist anyway.

Clarke shucks her coat and drops it on top of her heels. “My mother’s impossible,” she says. “I had to sneak out of the house like a child.”

Bellamy laughs at the thought of Clarke making a fake body in her bed with pillows and climbing out the window. “Must have been some dinner party.”

“It wasn’t a party. Just some family friends over for dinner.” Clarke pulls the weird plastic claw thing out of her hair, and it comes crashing down around her shoulders like some kind of golden avalanche. “It doesn’t matter,” she says.

Bellamy smirks. Maybe it matters, maybe it doesn’t. “I don’t mind, princess.”

Clarke lifts his shirt, skating her fingers across his skin. “I told you already—“

“I know. No strings.” He finds the thin band of her thong underwear and snaps it against her hip. “Except this one.”

* * *

They’re going to be filming in another city soon. Clarke has known this for a long time—almost as long as she’s known Bellamy—but until now, it didn’t seem to matter much. She scrolls through her text conversation with Bellamy, a list of places and times that stretches back for weeks.Three more days, and then she’s probably never going to see Bellamy again, because she’ll be out of town for three or four months and by then her mother will probably have conned her into actually dating one of her approved suitors. (Just as long as it isn’t Cage Wallace. Every dinner Clarke attends with that creep makes her a little more nauseous.)

Clarke’s phone buzzes in her hand, and a message appears as her phone automatically scrolls back to the bottom of the conversation. _Hydra, 30 mins?_

Clarke insisted on codenames for their usual meeting places, but Bellamy was the one to make up the names, so they all had really stupid names. “Hydra”—the bar—is a pretty frequent meeting place, and Monroe, the bartender with the braids, always keeps Bellamy’s corner in reserve. It’s good for midday meetups when Clarke doesn’t want to be seen walking into a random apartment building. She really doesn’t think her mother would stoop to having Clarke followed (if she even suspects anything), but Clarke doesn’t want to take any chances.

 _On my way_ , she replies. She tells the director she’s going to get lunch and leaves the set. She drives into town and parks across the street from the bar. It’s pretty empty, and she finds Bellamy with a glass of water in one hand and a smile on his face.

“Hey, princess.”

“Hey yourself.” She slides into the booth. “Middle of the day three days in a row?”

Bellamy leans over and plants a long, tender kiss on her lips. “You know you like it.”

Clarke pulls him closer and she hears the _clink_ of ice when Bellamy sets his glass on the table. His hand slips under her shirt and she gasps at the cold. He laughs into the kiss, and Clarke bites his bottom lip in retaliation. He tastes like mint and metal and Bellamy, and she probably tastes like shitty coffee and fries or something stupid because she didn’t even bother with gum on the way here. He doesn’t seem to care, though, because his hands are doing that _thing_ they do, and she shivers pleasantly as her fingers card through his dark curls.

Bellamy’s phone goes off way too soon.

“No,” Clarke mumbles.

“I gotta get back to work,” Bellamy says into her neck, trailing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses along her skin.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whines, clinging to him.

His hands, warm and strong on her hips, push her back onto the seat. 

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.” He drops a kiss on the end of her nose.

She only sees him once more before she goes out of town.


End file.
